


my own spirit for light

by klickitats



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Firsts, Grief/Mourning, I will find you, Memory, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, Post-Here Lies the Abyss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4951870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klickitats/pseuds/klickitats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Inquisitor leaves Cassandra in the Fade at Adamant, Josephine refuses to let her go. Strange journeys abound. A retelling of Orpheus and Eurydice in two parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my own spirit for light

**Author's Note:**

> All titles excerpted from H.D.'s marvelous poem, [Eurydice](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182485).  
> Thanks to sunspeared for being a champion beta.

_i.     so for your arrogance, I am broken at last_

 

“You left her,” Josephine repeats.

The world should give under her feet—open up, wide as famine’s mouth, and suck her down into blackness. But the world knows Josephine. Instead, iron curls around her legs, slides up her spine, hardens her heart into something new.

“She would not come.” Lavellan bites out the words, spits them out like gristle and bone. They stand in the courtyard. She returned after midnight, company in tow, before the rest of the Inquisition’s armies. The pitch of the sky extinguishes every star. Other than Bull, mighty at her back, they speak alone. 

Josephine nods slowly. “So you left her there.”

“Alistair and Hawke couldn’t stop snapping at each other—over who would fight the demon so we could escape,” Lavellan continues, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “So she just said, _go, you little shits_ and ran at the nightmare. And Bull pulled them into the rift with us.”

So simple. Josephine can picture it, though it reaches beyond her imagination. No time to connive a better plan, no time to thread  everyone through the eye of the needle—nothing to do but satiate a thousand-eyed demon with sword and shield.

“I’m sorry, Josephine.” Lavellan’s voice cracks, bone-weary, flecked with dust from the road. She still reels from the loss. Josephine sees it clear as day, with a scholar’s precision. The grief and guilt drag their claws deep. Bull rests his hands on her slender shoulders. “I’m—”

“Enough.” Josephine forgets to drape her voice in gauze. The syllable keens, quiet and sharp.

Lavellan’s wide eyes blink back their watery grief. “Please—I wouldn’t—”

Josephine nods, holds a hand up, and turns on her heel. She hears the susurrus of Bull’s murmuring against Lavellan’s plaintive little cries that suddenly grow anguished, brighter, and she hears him lift her from the ground.

The world should open beneath Josephine’s feet. The Fade’s demons live on greed—they know to take one lover means a clear path for another. A good meal has more than one course, after all. Their fingers should reach across the veil, splayed and longing and ready for Josephine’s soul.

But the world knows Josephine, and that is where the demons fail. They assume nothing rivals their appetite for sorrow, for mourning and broken fingernails, ashes in her hair, tears on the ground. They assume she is a lover in mourning. But they do not know Josephine. They do not know Josephine’s hunger.

~~~

Cassandra. Her shield raised to the sun, glinting as Josephine watches openly from the steps up to their piecemeal fortress at Haven. Her movements kick up snow every which way. Antivan duelists frequently practice their sport in the bogging, wet sands of the bay, when looking for a challenge.

She hacks a practice dummy to pieces, and Josephine wonders how often she goes through swords, and how she can procure one for her that will never bend, or break, or shatter. Jagged amethyst at the hilt. How it would fit in her hand. The bitter cold bites at Josephine’s fingertips, but Cassandra is only dressed in linen and fur.

Josephine brings her down a towel and a waterskin. Cassandra accepts with a thankful grunt, dumps the water over her head, and rubs her head and face frantically with the towel. Her linen shirt sticks to the skin of her back, to a thick and winding scar that arcs towards her shoulder blade, traveling over the heavy muscles of her back, a path to follow, follow, follow.

~~~

Solas sits, head bent in the candlelight, at the center of his universe. The rotunda fits him like a picture fits a frame, and in the flickering of the light, his paintings shudder in revolution.

“Ambassador.” He does not look up from his book.

Josephine folds her hands. “A matter requires your attention.”

“How can I help you?” He knows, somehow. Otherwise his petulant manners would quirk half a smile, one that does not reach his eyes, and a sliding comment about the lateness of the hour.

“Take me into the Fade,” she says.

“Go to sleep,” Solas replies, “and you may take yourself there.”

“No,” she says. “I must go myself.”

He pauses in his reading—his eyes cease their flickering to and fro across the page. “I’m afraid the Inquisitor is the only one with that power.”

Unacceptable. “The seams of the Veil are torn every which way,” she corrects. “Am I to believe that doors only work one direction?”

He sets down his book. “If we are to use your simplistic metaphor, doors require keys. The Inquisitor is a key. Demons are keys. We are not.” Solas looks her up and down, once. “To say little of how you would survive once you were there.”

Josephine tilts her head.

“A wretched place,” Solas says quietly, “for someone like you.” And then he reconsiders. “Or perhaps it is perfect.”

Josephine waits for him to continue.

“Spirits are lonely,” he says, going back to his book. “They love a silver tongue.”

~~~

“Cassandra.” Josephine rubs her temples with her fingertips. “She is not Andraste’s Herald.”

“A miracle does not know it is a miracle,” Cassandra counters, pacing back and forth. The room seems too small for the two of them, plus her fury, and Cassandra is completely incapable of holding still.

“She is _Dalish_ ,” Josephine says. “She is Dalish, and does not believe in the Maker, whether or not his hand is upon her. And she will not stop saying so. You must accept this.”

“But you tell our enemies—and Thedas—an entirely different version.”

“A story does not know it is a story.” Josephine leans against the windowpane. “Only the tellers know. But it is crucial to remember she is the story, and _we_ speak her.”

“Leliana and I founded this Inquisition on grounds of her holiness,” Cassandra bites out, “and I will not deny it.”

“No one is asking you to,” Josephine says.

“You are,” Cassandra says. “Not aloud, but in my heart.”

She blinks. “I wouldn’t dare, Seeker.”

Cassandra continues on as though she hasn’t heard. “The Maker works through all of us. The Inquisition must pull everyone together, and you—you choose to divide us willingly.”

Josephine adjusts some markers Cassandra knocked over earlier. “Is there not more than one truth?”

“Of course,” Cassandra bites out, with a dark look that plainly says _do not debate me on truth_. “Some are more sacred than others.”

“Who decides that?” She is honestly curious.

“Do we not—collectively decide?” Cassandra makes a revolted noise in the pit of her throat. “The truth of the bump in your nose must take a knee to the truth of Andraste’s sacrifice.”

Josephine suppresses a completely unexpected titter of laughter, keeps her face straight—not at Cassandra, never, but what Cassandra chooses to notice.

“I suppose I can agree,” she says, rubbing the bridge of said nose, lips unable to hold back a little smile. “But they coexist, and both are just as true, no matter how much gold each is worth.”

“This truth must be ultimate.” Cassandra does not share even a piece of her amusement. In fact, it only serves to incite her more. “It is too important. Think of those who will die for us. Think of those who already have. They did it for her. They did it because she is touched by the Maker.”

“Then there are two truths,” Josephine tells her simply. “Who Lavellan is, and who the Herald is.”

Cassandra snorts with undignified displeasure. “Semantic bullshit.”

“You are angry,” Josephine says, “because she does not ask you to accompany her when she ventures out.”

Cassandra’s eyes flash. “I am _not._ ”

Josephine steps forward, smoothing her skirts. “And this is why,” she shrugs. “This weight pulls the two of you to the ground. Allow her to exist outside your faith, and she will return.” She looks at her, tilting her head. “Please. You are better together. She deserves you at her side.”

“I cannot pretend she is not my Herald.” Cassandra’s words squeeze blood from a stone. “Even if she does not believe it. Even for her sake. I do not know how.” She thumps her fist on the war table. A marker falls over. “And the Inquisition will not survive past infancy if we cannot unite." 

“Seeker. Even the Divine had two hands,” Josephine says, and Cassandra leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.

 

_ii.     why did you turn back, that hell should be reinhabited_

 

When the troops return, Lavellan bullies them into the war room. A mistake.

The three advisors are tools to be used—a life’s purpose made of work, of direction. The kindling in the hearth, making the world warm, the universe possible. Cassandra was the flame. Even before Lavellan. Cassandra was the flame.

Leliana stands stiff, cold, ready. Cassandra’s death is yet another on her ledger, an act to be balanced in vengeance, a vengeance that will creep across Thedas in every shadowed corner. Waiting. Watching. It will hone her into fine point, a perfect dagger with perfect sharpness. Josephine suddenly finds deep gratitude for Leliana’s Warden, a slender, silver-haired Denerim elf who finds her way to the Inquisition’s home every two or three months, under cover of darkness. She will write to her immediately—Andraste knows Leliana won’t. And she will need someone to help her remember she is human. She will need them with all the speed the wind can give.

Cullen is hollow. Josephine has seen this look before—once, in a man who floated into Antiva’s bay clutching an empty wine barrel. The only survivor of his comrades, shipwrecked in a hard squall. A man cut free of all nets, all ropes, all ties to what moved his life against wind and rain. Josephine watched his rescuers set him up on shore, bring ladles of fresh water to his mouth. He could not swallow, and the water dripped sloppily out of his mouth, dotted the hot ground, and dried up in the sun.

And they both stare at Josephine like an unreadable text.

Lavellan stands quietly, fidgeting with her hands. “We should have a memorial,” she says quietly. “What would Cassandra have preferred?”

The silence hangs until Cullen says, “Nothing frivolous.”

Leliana nods. “A simple cremation. We—have no body. But her things. What we do not keep.” She edges every word with a cold carefulness. “It will do, for the Maker’s purposes.”

“When?” murmurs Lavellan.

“Tonight,” Leliana says. “It has been too long already.”

But this is unacceptable. “There will be no need,” Josephine interrupts, a wave of her hand.

Leliana exhales. “Josie,” she says, and it is too much. Everything jars together, music played out of tune.

“We do not know she is dead.” Josephine speaks the truth.

“Of course we do.” Cullen’s voice is soft, and that hurts. He is not a soft man. He should not try this with her.

“No,” Josephine snaps, dropping her tablet on the war table. “We only know she is in the Fade.”

Lavellan opens and closes her mouth. “Josephine,” she tries, “You did not see the demon. If you did, you would understand. She is gone.”

“If _you_ could walk out of the Fade,” Josephine begins slowly, “so could she.”

“I had this,” Lavellan reminds, twiddling her fingers, as though Josephine’s forgotten.

“You didn’t know what to do with it.” Lavellan’s words are true, but Josephine will not allow them to hang in the air as though she believes them. “A happy accident. You were an untested Dalish archer barely tall enough to string her own _bow,_ a little spy for a clan whistling away the hours in the forests of Starkhaven. What did you know? What did you have that she does not?”

“Josephine—“

“She is the Seeker.” Not _a_ Seeker, but _the_ , the definitive, the best of them, the only one worthy of the title. “A life spent in service, to cut down everything in her path for her faith. Right Hand of the Divine. Dragon-killer. The Hero of Orlais. Her name makes nations tremble.” Josephine’s hands are shaking. “And you want me to believe that _you_ could walk out of the Fade, and she cannot?”

They stare at her, their horror plain as the map on the table, as the dust motes circling idly in the air. She has said something terrible, without her sweetness rounding the edges, but she cares not. Every bright flame has shadows. Josephine will survive their talk of crazed grief. She merely bides her time. Lavellan slowly closes her mouth, bows her head.

Josephine picks up her tablet, waving her hand. “Do not wait for my weeping,” she tells them, her voice returned to its even countenance. “Wait for the sun to turn to salt. What is next?”

~~~

Josephine could ask Vivienne, but it makes little sense. She will never agree. Besides, Vivienne is somehow the only resident of Skyhold yet who can deal with the subject at hand with some civility.

She draws Josephine into her sunroom, speaks at length of the new court painter at the Winter Palace so that she can write home to her sister with all the details, and gives her a bottle of scented oil, rubs the smoothness into her palms.

They never speak of death, of Cassandra, or even the Inquisition. Josephine is herself, for a time. And for hours afterwards, the scent lingers on her skin—cloves and honey.

~~~

Cassandra sits by the roaring fire, long legs stretched out in front of her. Lavellan perches next to her on the bench, knees to her chest. They both hold cups of wine—Lavellan’s third, while Cassandra is scarcely halfway through hers. She grumbles something, and Lavellan laughs, high and easy, like a dove from a folk story. She pats Cassandra’s arm and stands, wobbling just a touch, before plodding off towards the Chargers. They’ve started up a rousing and extremely explicit song about a maiden of Starkhaven with an arse like the moon.

Josephine meanders to the fire, and sits in a soft pile of velvet and silk next to Cassandra. It is so cold, despite the wine she has consumed herself—and surely she will not begrudge her this.

“Tidings, Seeker,” she greets.

“My lady,” says Cassandra. “You pulled yourself from your desk.”

“My letters explaining the mages will wait,” she admits.

“Will they?” asks Cassandra, curious. “I thought they were ‘a problem insurmountable.’”

“Either way,” Josephine says, a careless wave of her hand, “it was going to take explaining. I hoped for the mages. Leliana is happy.”

“Why the mages?” Cassandra asks, without heat.

“Their time approaches, I think.” Josephine realizes how silly she sounds. “My instinct. It is time for their lives to change.”

“And the templars?”

“If the lot of mages changes, so will theirs,” Josephine assesses. “But it does not work the other way.”

“You think?” Cassandra sounds genuinely curious, or perhaps she is only humoring her.

“It doesn’t matter who holds the leash,” she says. “But you can cast the leash away.”

Silence, then. Cassandra considers the fire; Josephine considers Cassandra. The flickers of light cast her into sweet shadows, like an Orlesian painting of a knight kneeling before the Maker. If Josephine was a painter, she could make it so. She would title it, _Fire is Her Water_ , and hang it alongside the Sunburst Throne.

But they have sat in silence for too long. “I only came,” Josephine says, “to congratulate you on your grand victory,” Josephine says.

Cassandra snorts. “The sky is still scarred,” she grumbles, which startles Josephine into a jolt of laughter.

“Put out the fires,” Josephine orders. “Collect everyone’s ale mugs. Send them to bed. The world was saved, but not _neatly_ enough.”

The corner of Cassandra’s lips quirk up. The wine, Josephine thinks, as she leans in and kisses her cheek. Victorious knights earn a lady’s favor. Josephine says none of this, but is certain it translates in the gesture.

Cassandra’s cheekbones dust with pink. Or perhaps that is the fire, or the wind, or the wine. But Cassandra is not drinking her wine. Josephine voices this concern.

“It goes to my head,” she admits. “I do not imbibe.”

 “Such intelligence,” Josephine says, and steals her cup. Cassandra lets her. She takes a sip, and then offers it back. They pass it back and forth, their only company the crackling of the fire.

Perhaps Josephine shivers. Perhaps she does not. They will never actually know. But Cassandra says, “You are cold,” and wraps her arm around Josephine’s shoulders, pulling her in. She hides her cold nose in Cassandra’s neck. It is perfect. 

And then, a screaming cry roils above them, as though to rip the clouds open again, and fire pours from the sky, like wine from a cup.

 

_iii.     above the earth, hell is no worse_

 

Leliana, in her office, after a long day of letter-writing and meeting with an Orlesian dignitary. “Remove Sera from Cassandra’s room,” she says. “I do not even know how you convinced her to camp there.”

Gold, a new bow wrought from sylvanwood, and a lie about selling Cassandra’ possessions to restore Inquisition coffers. Sera was so offended the first two offers went unclaimed. “What’s she doing?” Josephine asks idly, shuffling papers.

“You know what she does,” Leliana snaps, out of patience. “She fires arrows at whoever comes up the stairs.”

“Then she does as I asked,” says Josephine.

“You are not the only one grieving.” Leliana’s voice is low, broken.

“I did not say I was.”

Leliana continues as though she has not heard. “You are not the only one who feels her loss like a wound. Let her friends mourn her.”

“Are they her friends,” Josephine murmurs, “if they accept her loss so easily?”

Another handful of words she cannot be forgiven for, like pearls falling off a snapped strand. She has never said such a thing to Leliana. She opens her mouth to say _forgive me_ , but Leliana speaks first.

“I will pretend,” she says, voice hard enough to break teeth, “those words did not fall from your mouth. We will return to the moment before, as though it never happened. Do you understand?”

Josephine looks up. Leliana’s eyes are half-lidded, but the sorrow in them is rare and crushing.

“I do,” she murmurs.

 “Let them let her go. They deserve peace, as does she.”

Josephine breaks their gaze, goes back to the letter at hand. “Cassandra’s aunt sent her a chest full of dresses before Adamant. Sera can find it. Burn that, if you need to burn something,” she says, signing the parchment. “She would delight in watching it go. Burn the chest itself, and no one need know you do not burn her.”

~~~

Cassandra carries Lavellan down the mountain’s ledge, her little elven body slung over her shoulder. The wind blows, bitter cold.

In this moment, Josephine finds in Cassandra a faith untouchable. She stands ankle deep in snow, soaked through to the bone in her silk and velvet, as close to the fire as she can without catching alight herself, and watches her descend from the maw of the mountain, clutching their hope, bearing the torch of the future. As sudden as the sun rising—one moment all is night, and in the next, the day begins.

 _A miracle does not know it is a miracle_. The words take Josephine so suddenly she finds herself on her knees next to the fire.

Leliana is there in a moment, hands on her shoulders—Josephine wordlessly points to Cullen and Cassandra coming down the mountain, and Leliana inhales, sprints off into the snow.

The rest of the night blurs—pieces of a story best forgotten. Even the fight between the advisors is an exercise in shaking off the past, the product of rage left heavy on them like burn marks, like scars. Lavellan, small and unbroken, like a green tree that bends in the wind, leans on Bull as they find a hymn to catch their voices together.

Josephine watches Cassandra lift her voice in low, tuneless song as they regain their hope in one deep breath.

And at the end of it, nerves frayed into nothing, at the moaning of the wounded and the burned, her hands shaking from the adrenaline of hiking through the snow, bitter and ragged and unable to sleep—Josephine goes to Cassandra’s tent.

“I am cold,” she says, her voice cracking on the last word, head bowed. It is selfish.

But Cassandra pulls her in, those big hands rubbing up and down her arms with bright purpose. Josephine leans forward, her forehead resting against her collarbones, breathes in leather and sweat. Cassandra rests a hand on the back of her neck. 

~~~

Instead, they burn everything. Josephine watches from her tower window.

She leaves her office, goes down the stairs, the back way she knows well to Cassandra’s room above the forge. No one notices her. She suspects this will become a new aspect to her life, now—when people cannot bear to hear a voice, they pretend it does not exist. Very well. To be the wind is an advantage.

She climbs up to the loft. The fires are quiet. Outside, there is singing. Josephine can hear it at the window. Leliana and Cullen, voices raised and empty, torn out, with all the useless helplessness of rendered limbs.

She listens till the song ends. They sing from the Chant. _An unquenchable flame._ The words ring hollow in her heart, hollow as the voices giving them light.

Josephine turns, but there is a cough, a rough voice taking flight in the cold night air. She hears it as clearly as though it were speaking beside her.

“The Seeker,” it begins, and then falters. Varric. “The Seeker—was the best of us. No question. I don’t even know why I brought it up.” The pauses lengthen, and the tug hard at Josephine’s heart, a new pain. “’Talk, dwarf, they tell me you’re good at it.’ Not today, I guess.” The pane of the window is too dirty to see anything, but Josephine presses her nose against it as though that will make a difference.

“I know what she would say,” he says. “ _Cut the bullshit and get back to work._ She wouldn’t want any of this. Train harder. Stop fucking around. There are dragons out there burning cities, and I’m not going to be there to kill them, so someone else should learn how.”

A broken pause. “Nobody else could go, so she did. Nobody else could stay. So she did. For everyone. For the luxury of living through the end of the world. Raise a glass,” he says, “and rest, Seeker, rest.”

The bed is there. Josephine lays upon it. The smell of coals, sandalwood, elfroot from below. They have even taken Cassandra’s mattress. This one is old, musty. She covers her face with her hands, but does not weep. Josephine only weeps for the dead.

A door opens, a door closes. Soft steps up to the loft. Josephine doesn’t turn to look. A weight at the edge of the bed as someone sits. They reach across, touch her elbow.

“Cullen asked me to find you,” says the soft, silky voice. Dorian.

“I will not speak to you,” she responds, unmoving, “if you think me mad.”

Dorian gently pulls her hands from her face.

Josephine sits up. “You do.”

“I do not think anyone who grieves is mad,” he says, a shrug.

“I do not grieve,” she protests.

Dorian doesn’t even blink. “Then what is this?”

“Frustration,” she snaps, “at having no tools to find her.”

“Because she is gone.”

“Were she dead, I might go amongst the mourners,” Josephine snaps. “I only grieve the dead. And she is not at rest, only _gone._ ” How can no one see the difference? “I know it.”

The light in the room changes when the moon comes out from behind a cloud. And it changes the air between them. Dorian tilts his head again, hesitates.

“Why?” It is only one syllable. But it holds no disdain, no harsh patience, no healing. True inquiry.

“I simply _know_.” Josephine meets his eyes directly. “Just as I know the lines in my hands. Like you know the sun rises and sets.”

“Faith?” Dorian’s eyes narrow.

“Faith is something you must trust is there even when you cannot see it.” Josephine rolls her eyes. “This—this is _knowing._ If she were gone, it would write itself in my heart first.”

Dorian remains unconvinced.  “You describe what can be found in any novel, my lady.”

He says this on purpose, Josephine knows, but she is tired and all of Cassandra’s things are burning in the courtyard for _no reason_. “What is between us cannot be found on earth,” she snarls, a twist of her lips. “You deal with death. You better than anyone know the way lives tangle together. I know when Cassandra worries—when she mourns, when she must breathe, or pray, or find something to kill—or when I need to go to my knees, or when I must take all of the blows dealt her on my back.”

As the words fall from her mouth, they clean her insides like fire. Dorian only stares. Josephine breathes deep, like a bellows.  

“The secrets she keeps fall on Andraste’s ears and mine alone. I know every scar on her skin, every hitch in her voice. We are _writ_ , muscle and bone, and you—you _dare_ to think I would not know if she was dead?” She means for her voice to ring strong, but it cracks, weary under the weight. “She does not give up, give in to the Fade. And I will not, not while she lives. While she _waits_.” After all have abandoned her. The thought is too terrible to bear. “I can’t.”

Dorian reaches forward, wraps his fingers around her wrists. Gentle. Grounding. “It is truth,” he says. It is not a question. It is everything she said, bound in a word.

“Truth,” Josephine says. “The only truth I know.” 

~~~

Cassandra kisses her first—too hard, all teeth and tongue. An ambush.

Cassandra has never loved a woman before. Josephine suspects it is possible she has never been with _anyone_ before. She never admits this, but it becomes increasingly plain as Josephine’s shoulders dig into the stone of Skyhold’s courtyard, the shadow of the steps, under the winking stars. They have been at Skyhold two weeks, and Josephine is somewhat confident they are the first to christen this corner in this particular fashion.

She finally breaks away, and Cassandra holds her at arm’s length. “I am sorry,” she pants, voice higher than usual, out of breath. Josephine understands the feeling. “I—have been trying to find my courage for the past week, and we leave for the Mire tomorrow—”

Josephine tilts her head. “Are you not planning on returning to us?”

“No! No. It is—a horrible place,” Cassandra attempts, lamely, looking away. “But not deadly. Only very wet and very cold.” There is a long pause. “I am keeping a promise to myself.” Her voice is so quiet.

 Josephine settles her shoulders more comfortably into the corner, and slides her hands down to Cassandra’s waist, tugging her closer. Cassandra follows so easily. Josephine’s heart closes like a fist around this knowledge—trust, given. “What promise?”

Pandering and tricks do not exist between them: a perfect earnestness, always. All it needs is time. Cassandra’s eyes search each stone above Josephine’s head before. Josephine strokes soft circles into Cassandra’s hip with the pad of her thumb.

“Haven,” she finally says.

Josephine nods.

“The archdemon,” she says.

Josephine nods.

A long pause. “Endless possibilities,” mutters Cassandra, head bent, and Josephine stops her mouth with a kiss. Smaller, this time. Cassandra starts like a spooked horse under it—Cassandra has been kissed before, then, but not gently—someone has decided she has no need of it, or taught her it was unnecessary. Maker, what a sin.

Cassandra’s lips are soft—she cares for them, lines them with beeswax. Perhaps in preparation for this moment. The thought of this sends sudden heat all the way to her fingertips. Cassandra, bright student, eases her grip on her shoulders, their hips tilting together as her legs bracket Josephine’s. She still can’t manage her own tongue, and when it thrusts into her mouth, Josephine pulls back, rests a thumb on those soft lips.

She adjusts—one of those hands slides to the back of her neck, and the other dips between Josephine’s arm and body to rest at her ribs, her fingers lining each bone, a perfect fit.

Josephine kisses the corner of Cassandra’s mouth, captures her bottom lip. And when Josephine traces her tongue inside, she shows Cassandra how to taste, how to savor—a tiny noise escapes her throat, high and pleased—it takes all Josephine’s will not to tug Cassandra into the stables and into the hay, to truly give her what she craves—a light against the night, a memory for a cold and empty tent—in short, everything.

~~~

 The moon shines bright inside the loft above the forge. It is not Cassandra’s anymore.

Dorian says, “Will you let me help you?”

Josephine says, “Yes.”

 

_iv.    I have the flowers of myself and my thoughts, no god can take that_

 

Josephine, the wind.

She has a missive that needs signing—Lavellan cannot be found by runners, which means she is in Bull’s quarters above the tavern, even this late in the morning. At their door, before she knocks, she listens. Interrupting them mid-coitus is unadvisable.

“This is my fault.” Lavellan’s voice, small and too tender. She is only a handful of years younger than Josephine, but somehow she is still so _young._

“It’s not,” Bull says, even and steady. “But you keep saying it.”

“Because it’s true.”

“No.” The rumble of a body rolling over, the creak of a bed. “You want it to be true, because that means there’s someone to blame. A solution.”

Silence. “Grief doesn’t work that way, _kadan._ ”

More silence, but it is not empty—this is the silence of bodies, of one body finding another. Lavellan, a small gem, huddled in on herself, wrapped in a massive grey boulder, prepared to weather wind, rain, and all manners of storm.

“I don’t know how to do this.” A whisper.

“You do,” he says.

“It hurts.”

“It always will.” A kiss pressed to a shoulder. “You just learn how to carry it.”

And a long, long pause. Josephine knows exactly what she will say before she even says it.

“Josephine,” whispers Lavellan, “frightens me.”

A pause, like a hand coming to rest in someone’s hair. Bull sounds troubled. “She’s on her own path,” he says. “Focused. That’s who she is.”

“I know,” Lavellan answers. “I know. I just—she doesn’t believe it.”

“No,” Bull agrees. “But you can’t control it. You can’t ask her to grieve your way.”

“But—”

“No.” Bull is gentle.

Lavellan sighs. “She’s like a ghost. She is—attentive. Acts as she should. Acts as though nothing has happened. But something is gone. And if we could just—give it a name.” The press of fingertips to temples. “Give it time to live and breathe. We could go on. But she’s—fading.” Lavellan’s voice is almost dream-touched, distant. “A ghost.”

There it lies. Josephine shivers with the truth of it. Bull says nothing.

Josephine slides the missive under their door, and leaves.

~~~

“They died for nothing,” Cassandra snaps.

“Then why seek them out?” Josephine is out of patience. “Why travel to and fro with the Inquisitor across Thedas if their lives mean nothing, and their deaths mean nothing?”

Cassandra paces. “That is not what I said.”

She furrows her brow. “And if these bands of templars and apostates die for nothing, why are you the one who takes them to your blade? Are you both judge and executioner?”

“Duty,” snaps Cassandra. “Duty, even against brothers and sisters.”

Josephine goes back to her letter. “I will be here,” she says, “when you remember how to speak plainly.” She dots her quill in the ink.

“ _Stop._ ” Cassandra slaps her palms, hard, down on Josephine’s desk. The inkwell jostles; Josephine’s quill bleeds into a heavy black patch on the page. When she looks up, there are tears in Cassandra’s eyes. A slap across the face would be more welcome.

“They died for nothing,” she repeats. “You know what that means. They were—used. Like puppets. And now they are gone, with no one to grieve them but me, and I am a useless mourner.”

“What of your Maker?” The words fall from Josephine’s lips before she can stop them. “Does he not weep for his children?”

Cassandra stands back, rights herself. “I do not know,” she mutters. “If he cries, his tears are silent.” And then she goes, leaves Josephine staring at the spot where she once stood. 

~~~

Dorian makes pages of copious notes. Josephine cannot read them for a life of her—splendid diagrams, numbers in strange languages, conversions of lyrium and embrium. If it works, she will have them framed, hung on her office wall. The art of rescue.

Late at night, while all sleep, Josephine goes to the library and Dorian makes her sit. The brightness in his eyes hones in on her, pointed and sharp. A glimpse of Magister Pavus, Josephine thinks. A Dorian from another time. A Dorian at his best.

“I have guidelines,” he says, “for our pleasant sojourn—however we make it.” He glances down to some notes at the bottom of one of his pages, scrawled so small they are nigh illegible.

“We must wait until the Inquisitor is out of Skyhold.” Easy enough. “She is fond of taking Solas, and he is the most in-tune with the Fade.” He shrugs. “Vivienne is the strongest mage of us, but what Solas has, we cannot replicate.”

Josephine tilts her head. “Would he…”

Dorian nods. “He would—feel, for lack of a better word, our alterations. He would know. He would stop it.”

This is an agreeable term, and Josephine says as much.

“You must follow my direction.” This, however, bristles her spine. “Josephine. Magic is my blood, my legacy, my life. I—“ He exhales, leans back in his chair. “I do not mean to leash you, but I cannot have you scrambling all over the Fade.”

“I will trust you,” she says. “That is what you ask. I will trust you.” Dorian blinks at her. “You trust me, apparently, with whatever I carry.”

He chooses not to remark on this. Josephine does not know why he believes her, and mostly does not care. Perhaps he cannot admit it to himself quite yet. “Part of this,” Dorian says, “is the last agreement.”

Josephine waits.

“If you go into the Fade,” he says, “I must come with you. I must. You cannot go alone.”

Amenable enough. He expects a fight; she does not argue. 

Instead, she says, “How do we go?”

“I have an idea,” Dorian says, “but—we will need… assistance.” At Josephine’s strange look, he smiles, twirls the end of his mustache between thumb and forefinger.

“From who?” she finally asks.

“An old friend,” he says.

~~~

Cassandra is in the chapel, late. Josephine opens the door, pokes her head in, and shuts the door quietly behind her.

She sits back on her heels, looking up at Andraste with a puzzled look on her face. The light from the candles flickers across her face.

Josephine stands next to her, slides her hand onto her shoulder. Cassandra shrugs it off, not gently. Josephine holds her hands behind her back instead. They stand in the silence, but it is not cold. 

“I do not fit here.” Cassandra speaks either speaks to Josephine, or Andraste, but it matters little. It’s true. It is not that she is _rejected_. This is untraditional, this loss. It is not that Cassandra doesn’t have purpose—to break dragons on her blade, run Red Templars to each corner of the earth—but she is no longer cupped in the Maker’s hand. The Divine’s Sword once had clear purpose and direction, limitless faith, a world and a heaven that made sense in tandem.

Now everything is changed, and Cassandra cannot find what Andraste touches, and doesn’t touch. She follows an Inquisitor who either loves her or cannot stand the sight of her, depending on the day, protects a Herald who doesn’t exist, or does, or doesn’t.

 _When I cannot see for madness, all that makes sense is you_ , Josephine thinks. But she says, “None of us do.” She searches for words. “Discord makes its own harmony.”

Cassandra grunts.

“You fit,” Josephine murmurs. She touches Cassandra’s shoulder again—this time, she does not shrug it off. She watches her fingers contour to the broad expanse of her shoulder. “Under my hand,” she continues, “at least, you are perfect.” 

 Cassandra closes her eyes—she cannot tell if that is a comfort or a piece of drivel. Perhaps Cassandra herself does not know. But she allows the touch to linger.

“I made light,” Josephine says quietly, “of your pain. I will never do it again.”

Cassandra does not open your eyes. “How do you know?” she asks, and Josephine wants the stone to open up and swallow her whole.

“I don’t,” she admits. 

They let it rock between them, like waves. Cassandra stands, brushes the dust from her legs, and turns. She is very tall. She casts a shadow across the steps, across the candles. Josephine tips her head up.

“I do,” Cassandra says.

Josephine blinks. Cassandra shrugs her shoulders to gesture to the small, glowing chapel around them. Her thumb brushes the bump of Josephine’s nose. Ah. Truth.

Cassandra has never been with a woman. Cassandra has never _been_ with anyone.  Josephine has treated this fact as it should be—a covenant between them. She would do this perfect, slow, with candlelight and not the constant ruckus of the hammer blows and bellows of the forge.

But plans. _Plans._ Cassandra dips her head and kisses her—with promise, suddenly, and _hunger_ , because something has been carved out of her, tonight, and its absence must be filled, sated, rectified. Cassandra, who has learned how to ask with her mouth before she plunders—and does so, with a sweep of her tongue that keeps Josephine up long nights. Cassandra breathes her in. 

Josephine thinks, _I will make you whole again_ and runs her hands up Cassandra's back. Blasphemous. Cassandra would say _only the Maker can_ , but the Maker cannot take away pain, only give—and Josephine will find a way to fill the gap between the heavens and the earth.

After all, If anyone is worthy of pleasure, isn’t it Cassandra? Isn’t it her, in this place where two things that repel each other instead find life? Josephine does not think the Maker believes in love—how else does a god let _Andraste_ die—and Josephine does not believe in Him, and yet they touch, bound by Cassandra’s boundless heart.

That is to say: plans change. Josephine is nothing if not good on her feet. 

She finds herself on her knees in front of Cassandra, who is panting and arched against the stone wall of the chapel. It happens in a rush, a clatter of moments: Cassandra working a hand inside her shirt to knead her breast with a rough hand, Josephine sucking bruises along her collarbones, oh, the deep sounds Cassandra makes at the raw cut of her teeth. Full of heat, forgetting the room, the candles. Cassandra’s hand winds into her hair with sudden strength and pulls back her head, teeth at her throat— _yes,_ breathes Josephine, moans when her fingers tighten.

Somewhere between all this, Josephine sinks to her knees, her hands sliding up Cassandra’s thighs. One day, she will undress her piece by piece, leather by leather, and trace each glorious muscle that doubtless lies hidden from her gaze. But now she unbuckles Cassandra’s belt, undoes the laces of her trousers, pulls down her smallclothes.

She slides a finger up the seam of her lips; Cassandra watches with half-lidded eyes, hands balled into fists against the stone. Wet, yes, of course she is—another lover might smirk, grinning and smug with their victory, at reducing them to a sopping mess—but Cassandra looks away, caught between shame and defense.

Unacceptable—who has _taught her this_ , or who has taught her _nothing_ —Josephine parts her with her thumbs and kisses her like a woman should be kissed. Tongue tender, tracing, but merciless—at the hitch of Cassandra’s breath, she flicks in soft arcs. The memory of the courtyard, of teaching Cassandra how to taste, and how it has led to this here, on her knees, makes her groan. She waits for another gasp of breath, a low moan, a barely-held tremble of Cassandra’s spine: it tells her what she needs to know. She seals her mouth against warm flesh and sucks in soft pulses until Cassandra’s thighs quiver and she comes with a jerk of her hips.

Josephine is polite, greedy: she laps each soft fold of flesh until Cassandra breathes out, a soft _ah, fuck_ , her head clunking back against the stone. Josephine smiles, all delight as she wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

In between one breath and the next Cassandra topples her back, and she squeals. Cassandra cradles her head in one hand so Josephine doesn’t smack her head against the cobbled steps; the other wrests beneath her skirts and trousers and hose. Josephine tries to give direction but Cassandra is rather committed to solving the task herself.

There is a sudden pause—Cassandra lifts a nearby candle to a higher step, safely away from Josephine’s hair. The action makes her numb with tenderness, and she wraps her arms around Cassandra’s neck, dragging her down again.

When Cassandra finds her flesh, she stops—waits, really, for permission. Her skin is so warm, like it radiates from her very bones. (Josephine has long suspected Cassandra is a sun all her own.)

She reaches down, guides her fingers inside, guides their long curves to stroke up and firm and just so. Cassandra finds her clit, rolls the flesh slow under the heavy press of her thumb. It is a little like dying, to be taken here on the steps on the chapel, choking on the rising pleasure of it. Josephine does not pull her hand away; she lingers, feels how well Cassandra’s fingers fit, how they drag in and out of her body, how hard her wrist snaps, how deep they slide. Each inch of her skin sings. When she comes, a high cry breaks from her throat and Cassandra swiftly covers her mouth.

They lay there, sated. Cassandra rolls onto her back and pulls Josephine atop her, so the steps only prod one of their spines. When the first pink touches of morning slide under the door, Cassandra lifts her in a slow, easy movement, like an artisan cradling glass. A tenderness unbreakable.

They do not say _I love you_. Cassandra shifts Josephine up so she can rest her weary head on her collarbone. Josephine’s fingers drape across her shoulder, a reminder, a promise.

~~~

Josephine, the ghost no one sees or hears. Up to the rookery to send a letter and she hears low voices, hushed and bitter. She stops at the foot of the stairs, before the sound of her ascent can give her away.

“I don’t see how it’s your business.” Dorian’s voice, pleasant and dismissive. Nothing abnormal.

“It kills me, what you’re doing with her.” That is—that is Cullen’s voice. Josephine rests her shoulder against the wall.

A long pause. “The _drama_ , commander. I am helping her piece through a few books.”

“You know it is not so simple.” Cullen breathes deeply. She knows the gesture he is making now, a thumb and forefinger at his brow. “You enable madness. How cruel can you be, Dorian?”

“I believe her.” So simple. A perfect truth. 

Cullen makes a furious noise. “I should never have asked you to speak with her,” he mutters. “To comfort her. Watching it is as bad as losing Cassandra herself.”

“If it is her way, it is her way,” Dorian snaps. “Just as your way is staring at the lyrium ration till the sun comes up.” A half breath’s pause. “You think I don’t notice?”

“It helps me concentrate on prayer, on what I need to do.” 

 _“Pah_. It helps you tell yourself that you’re worthless.” Dorian paces back and forth, back and forth. “Even a stupid lie is a lie, Cullen.”

“I did not come here for a lecture.” Cullen’s voice is so hard. “I came to—understand. You and Josephine.” Now he brushes his hand over his face. Josephine sees it clear as day. “Cassandra would hate this.”

“If she is gone, then she is gone,” Dorian corrects, “and Josephine will find her way. You do not _dictate_ how people deal with death.”

“So I should indulge her fantasy? Stand and smile at this unhinged grief?”

“What else is there to do?” Dorian shrugs. “You choose to not believe, and I choose Josephine.”

Cullen presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “This was a mistake.”

“Then why did you send me?” Dorian snaps.

“Because you are like her,” Cullen says.

The pause is long. Josephine does not breathe.

“No,” Dorian says, slow, dangerous. “ _We_ are like her.”

“That is—”

“I saw them in the great hall, once,” Dorian says, distantly, as though ruminating on a painting. The anger in his voice is palpable. “As an audience for a judgment was assembling—that Avvar who pelted us with goats, you remember? The Inquisitor finally made it to her chair, there was the call from the front of the hall that the prisoner was being brought up from the cages—and Cassandra bent and kissed Josephine, right in front of everyone. Just to say goodbye.”

A pause. Dorian takes a deep breath. “Nothing about it was chaste, or sweet, or quick. Just—we must part, let me have you once more. I,” he tries, and fails.

The sounds of two people moving closer together. Josephine touches her own lips. Her cheeks are wet. Why? Cassandra is not dead—she will find her soon. But she cannot breathe.

“Have you ever,” Dorian says, choked, fighting it, fighting it tooth and nail, “never known you wanted something, till you saw it, and then you could not live without it?”

Josephine remembers Cassandra climbing down the mountain, of her breath being stolen in the snow. Cullen says, “Yes,” a cracked and raw thing, and Josephine knows they think in unison: _it was you, you, you._

No more words, after that—the mediocre sounds of flesh on flesh, nails digging into skin, pulling at belt buckles, the sigh of aching relief brought by a tongue, or a hand; mediocre, yes, when all that matters is breathing her in.

Remove the superfluous. Josephine’s hard heart echoes, a stone clattering at the bottom of a dried up well: all that matters is her. All is her. Her. 

Josephine finds herself empty, and drifts away.

 

_v.     you who passed across the light and reached, ruthless_

 

Since the Inquisitor left Cassandra in the Fade, Josephine has not dreamed.

She realizes this one morning, when she wakes before the sun. It did not begin when Lavellan gave her the news, but weeks before. Weeks. In sleep, the Fade is all black, a solid door. She was too weary to noticed, too distracted.

Josephine once heard that to dream of something in particular, one must fall asleep thinking of it. For nights, she thinks of Cassandra till her eyes grow heavy. It never works. So she thinks of pickaxes, shovels, miners carts toting away heavy black stones. Nothing.

She thinks of _gaatlok._ Of fire. Of a scream so loud it brings down the Veil. Each night, a new methodology. Each night, new tools. Swords. Pikes. Battleaxes. It takes her an embarrassingly long time to remember _battering ram._ Then: fists. Feet. Plate boots. Her nails, scratching at the black until she bleeds, till they break away and her fingers are bloodied nubs.

Nothing gives. Not Josephine, not the Fade. And so, in sleep, she stares into black, pricking at it with a needle. Trying to scratch out a pinpoint’s worth of light. Just one. Just one.

~~~

Cassandra battles Varric, labels him a traitor, threatens to ban him from the Inquisition—Josephine is not there but she hears about it within the hour, hears of how the Inquisitor shoved them apart like bickering children and screamed at them both.

Josephine returns to her room after the midnight bell and finds Cassandra sitting there, legs crossed under her, elbows on her knees. The fire crackles—Cassandra is always tending hearths, adjusting books on their shelves, cleaning Josephine’s mirror with a handkerchief. She cannot sit still.

But she does now, bound up in herself by the length of her agonized complaints with the world, and how it turns, and how it suffers. Her eyes are dark in the light of the fire. Sometimes, even inside the Inquisition, inside its heavy mantle and heavier promises, Cassandra forgets who she is. This is the way of those who lived caged inside an order, Josephine reflects, pushing down petulant anger, and then are freed before they are ready, against their will.

All day, Cassandra bristles at her recruits, snaps at the Inquisitor. No one looks her in the eye unless they wish a thrashing ending in blood. Here, she is herself.

Josephine pulls off each layer of her blouse and skirts with brisk fingers—gold and blue lumped on the floor, her small shoes left beneath the pile, a graceful bend to unwind the hose from her legs.

Naked, she stands before Cassandra, outlined by the licking light of the flames. Cassandra looks up at her, reaches out, takes.

It is not really a matter of _gentleness_ , Josephine has learned, but a matter of what is offered, what is given. It occurs to her in a haze—Cassandra’s teeth leave prickled half-moons on her ribs, the swell of her breast, the arch of her hip. Each bite leaves her dizzy as she arches her back in a wordless plea for more, a never-ending shiver, _please_ , _everything, have it, have it_. _If it will make you whole, make you better, make you mine, I give it, please._

The sharp pleasure of it is enough, somehow—when Cassandra’s teeth scrape across her breast, Josephine comes in a rattle of breath, clutching at her arm. And then there is a pause, as though their heads have come up above the tide. She catches her breath, and Cassandra’s fingers stroke her hair away from her face. The earnestness of her awe, the wideness of her eyes--Josephine tilts her head up and finds her mouth. She keeps her there, when Cassandra’s fingers wander between her thighs, when her strong legs keep Josephine spread wide and open.

 Even as she dies on the stretch of those fingers, even when Cassandra keeps her pinned to the bed and does not stop when she comes once more, and again, their lips do not part for more than a moment, a breath, a moan. Her hips roll helplessly against the sheets; her body begs; Cassandra slides her fingers into her hair and tugs _hard_ and everything goes white for awhile.

It is—perfect. Josephine finds herself again, like blinking snow out of her eyes. She lets Cassandra pull her up into bed, wrap them in goose-down, corded arms snug around her. She will be sore in the morning—Cassandra will lift her to the bath, stroke the fingertip bruises left in her hips, kiss the tender bites on her ribs.

But now they gaze at one another, close enough their noses nearly touch—Josephine, dizzy and replete, and Cassandra much the same. But Josephine finds the strength to raise a hand, settle it on the curve of her shoulder.

Cassandra’s eyes soften. It is their sign. _Under my hand, you are perfect. Here, you fit._

~~~

The Inquisitor has been out of Skyhold for a whole twenty-four hours: gone to the desert in hopes the sand will scour the grief out of her. Bull, Solas, and Varric travel with her.

She stands in Dorian’s bedroom, watching him draw an intricate circle on the wooden floor with salt. His staff is clasped to his back. She perches on the chair, waits patiently.

He has told her nothing of the ritual. This is on purpose, she is sure, so she does not try to take matters into her own hands. It is wise, in all truth—Josephine would do so, without a doubt.

Drops of a tincture from embrium dot the ground, and then blue jewels of lyrium. Dorian rubs an herb between his fingers, and the scent that rises is heady and thick. It makes Josephine a little lightheaded.

“We will _just_ speak to her,” Dorian says, finally, tapping his staff on the floor.

Josephine rises, obedient. “Her?” she inquires.

Dorian motions to the circle. “You must not cross,” he tells her. She doesn’t answer, examining the runes so delicately traced on the floor. “Josephine.”

“Yes,” she says, “yes, yes. Are you ready?”

“We are only speaking to her,” Dorian reminds. “Speaking, and that is all. Do not cross the salt.”

It suddenly occurs to her how nervous he must be. If they are caught, she is excused automatically on the pretense of madness. He, however, will lose everything. He is in the middle of rubbing charcoal on his palms when Josephine crosses to him, takes his face in his hands.

“Thank you,” she says.

Dorian does not know what to do. “My pleasure,” he says. “Indulging a scholarly pursuit, my lady. Nothing more.” He gently takes her hands from his face, and looks away. Josephine’s eyes are clear as water—there is no more hiding from their gaze. She knows he lies. He knows he lies. They go on.

He lifts his staff, mutters a prayer, and the moon blots out at the window. They are shrouded in shadow, and the air grows too heavy to breathe. Josephine covers her mouth, wheezing. Dorian grasps her arm.

Dimness blooms in the center of the circle, fogged and dusted, like a door opening beyond the smoke. An afterlife lit by worn-down candles. And then—pinpricks of light, _light_ , light like Josephine has never seen, sweet and bright and holy, if anything ever was. Serrations in the Veil. Like lace, pulled at the fringes.

Shadow again, and then—a soft purple light. Blinking eyes. A woman— _is_ that a woman?—with heavy horns. A scowl mars her perfect face. Josephine inhales. That is a demon.

Desire comes fully into form, then—tall and lithe, but not nude. Wrapped in silk, carelessly strewn about her scaly body—like an exquisitely rumpled duchess, just sliding out of bed.

“I was _sleeping_ ,” she seethes, and her voice is so smooth it hurts. Josephine cannot help her wince—it grates along the finer edges of her brain. Dorian’s hand clenches on her arm.

But then he chuckles. A defense. “You don’t sleep,” he says. “But the effect is stunning, I must say.”

Desire preens. “Thank you,” she says, and the air shifts to make a chaise, hazy as an oil painting. She drapes herself across it. “Make this worth my while.”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “You must know already.”

“Mmm?” Desire stretches. “What don’t I know?”

“A woman walks the Fade,” Josephine says suddenly, and the whole world realigns. Desire’s great grey eyes settle on her. Josephine stands ramrod straight, eyes her up and down. She is not intimidated by a showy piece of satin. She could _wear_ this demon like a silk cloak.

“That she does,” drawls Desire. She leans forward a little. Dorian bites down on a gasp, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her arm.  Josephine’s heart beats at rapid tempo, each beat an echo of _she does, she does._ It is not a revelation, and her body does not treat it as such. After all, hasn’t Josephine always known?

“Excuse me,” says Dorian. Desire rolls her eyes.

“What’s your name, little one?”

Dorian squeezes her arm. Josephine is unafraid. “Josephine,” she says.

“Josephine,” repeats Desire. “Josephine.” The name slides over her tongue like water. She considers her with a deep inhale. “I can smell her on you.”

Dorian’s eyes narrow. “I did not summon you for a game of charades,” he reminds idly. “I bind you for a task.”

Desire groans. “You _bore_ me, mage,” she despairs. “You bore me and worse, you want me to work.” She stretches, slides off her chaise with all her mussed silks. It fades away. “But you,” she murmurs. “Josephine. _Josephine._ ” Desire licks her lips. “You are so hungry to find her.” She shivers. “You _want_."

“Find the Seeker,” Dorian says, “and take her to a Fade rift, so she can fall out of it.”

Desire hisses—a wind shutters through the room. Her soft purple light goes dark and hazy. All of Desire’s teeth are needles, long and thin. Josephine swallows. “I do not serve at your pleasure,” she murmurs, and the voice _hurts_ , like going mad, “I serve at _mine._ What do you offer?”

“I shan’t kill you, for starters.” Dorian is wholly unimpressed by this display, but it does nothing to comfort Josephine.

“You cannot break me like a beast of burden,” snaps Desire. The light grows dimmer—she is fading away, slipping. “ _Offer_ , mage.” All she can see is the demon’s face. Her voice is faint.

And Josephine reaches forward, her hand crossing the line of salt.

Desire becomes whole again, quick as a stroke of ink from a paintbrush, and cool, fanged fingers wind through Josephine’s. Dorian is not breathing—out of panic, perhaps, but this is Josephine’s task now.

“Do not bend, Desire,” says Josephine. “Only take me through. Give me time.”

“And?” Desire’s fingers tighten around hers.

“If I fail, have me.” An exhale. “To take, or break, or—what you want.”

“To keep.” Desire’s eyes smile.

Josephine nods. “To keep.”

There is a flash of red and fire from Dorian, but it cannot cross the circle of salt. The promise borne between the two of them provides its own magic—or perhaps Desire is much stronger than she appears.

“Why should I agree?” Desire has already agreed, Josephine knows.

“Because Desire does not prefer what is easy.” Josephine raises an eyebrow. “Or else why would it seek such impossible climes?”

Desire shivers, the curve of her lip sliding into a sweet smile. People have perished for that smile, Josephine realizes. Her heart hardens. Do not be afraid.

“Three days,” says Desire.

Dorian wraps his arm around Josephine’s waist. “You are caught in her glimmer,” he hisses, “say no, Josephine, for the Maker’s sake—she is a _demon_ , she _deceives_ —“

“Yes,” says Josephine.

Dorian tries to lift Josephine, but Desire’s eyes flash. He cannot move her. Josephine is covered in soft, feathery tendrils of violet light.

“And if you do not find your way—“

“In three days time,” Josephine interrupts.

“—I will have you for my own.”

“Yes.” A seal between them. The moon comes out from behind the dark. Dorian’s power is no more, here. He nearly _screams_ in anguish, in panic.

Josephine opens her mouth to say, be at peace, but finds her voice is gone. Her mouth works open and closed around useless air—and for the first time—terror.

Desire grins. _No_ , Josephine thinks, _no, no, no._

“I have to _protect_ my investment,” Desire sings, drunk on victory. “You cannot just meander through the Fade like a princess on a countryside picnic. What if someone hears you?”

Josephine grapples for Dorian’s hand—they find each other, and Dorian pulls as hard as he can, staff forgotten on the ground. “Let her go,” he demands, and fire encircles Josephine. It does not touch her, but it doesn’t touch Desire, either.

Her laugh is high and long. “We have bound ourselves to each other,” Desire reminds him. “And you know the rules better than anyone.” And then Josephine watches her hands disappear.

They are still there—she can _feel them_ , feel her fingers in the grip of Desire, where they clutch around Dorian’s forearm. Her mind goes white with panic. It is impossible, this.

“And if, by chance, anything hears you, it will doubtless _see_ you,” Desire says, sing-song. “And I want nothing to find you a vessel, or a morsel, or a… temptation.” Josephine watches her arms disappear—she can just make out her own outlines, as though her edges catch the dimness of the moon. But then in one fell swallow, like falling into a river, all of her is gone.

Dorian no longer holds her—how does one grasp water, or air? Fire consumes the room—it burns his books, the pages on his desk, his bed—it does not touch them. His face is twisted, ugly—tears on his cheeks.

“So,” says Desire, “find her, sweet Josephine, or I shall find you.”

She pulls her over the circle, into the shadow, into the pinpricks of light. Somewhere, far away, Dorian cries out, and the living world seals behind them. Josephine feels it close, like a stone at the threshold of a tomb. A moment there, a moment gone—solid and black. She knows that blackness, knows that door, that unbreakable wall—the _Fade._ They are—she doesn’t know where they are—but she has found a way through. The joy is cold.

The world between worlds is still, like a breath before the cliff’s edge. Desire smiles. Josephine flies.

 


End file.
